


i'm standing guard (i'm falling apart)

by VulpeculaAnser



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Descriptions of children and babies in distress, Descriptions of past child abuse and neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hospitals, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Philindaisy feels, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 04, Set sort of early S4 before the Framework, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26531692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulpeculaAnser/pseuds/VulpeculaAnser
Summary: In which Daisy’s PTSD is triggered by the sound of children crying.
Relationships: Melinda May & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Phil Coulson & Skye | Daisy Johnson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 179





	i'm standing guard (i'm falling apart)

**Author's Note:**

> title from “eight” by sleeping at last
> 
> please heed the trigger warnings in the tags

Daisy has always hated hospitals, ever since she was a kid.

Maybe it’s because her hospital visits throughout her childhood have always been due to violent or neglectful foster parents breaking her limbs or beating her to a pulp… or that one time she was locked into a closet for three days without food and water after the family she was staying with went on vacation and forgot about her after punishing her. She almost died of dehydration and starvation, and she was found by the cops after she screamed herself hoarse for the neighbors to hear. And that wasn't even the worst home she lived in - nowhere close.

Hospitals reek of nose-burning disinfectant to cover up the stench of infection and death; they’re depressing as hell, full of doctors and nurses who plaster on fake smiles and talk with false optimism even as people suffer and die around them. And she’ll never be comfortable in them. In fact, Daisy would be perfectly happy never setting foot in one again, even if she gets injured too badly for Simmons to treat her.

The only reason she is stepping foot in one right now is because she and the team are searching for a man who was admitted last night, an inhuman on SHIELD’s protection list who was somehow tracked down and targeted by Watchdogs. Mace has sent her, Coulson, May, and Fitzsimmons to bring him safely into SHIELD custody so they can have him sent into witness protection.

She’s the contact, Coulson and May are her back-up - not that she really needs it, what with her powers and all - and Fitzsimmons are here so Simmons can give him a quick check-up using her knowledge of inhuman physiology, and Fitz can shut off the man’s tracking watch, in case the Watchdogs are hacking SHIELD tech to find Inhumans. Mack’s not with them, only because he’s running a separate op with Davis, Piper, and Prince to scour the crime scene of the attack.

Working with SHIELD does have its perks beyond getting to live with her family and friends again, as the hospital staff have allowed them to enter through the back of the building, and avoid the more public areas, like reception, waiting rooms, and ER. It’s a relief, actually; Quake has become quite a famous superhero at this point, and Daisy honestly despises the attention it gets her from fawning fans desperate to take selfies with her. She’s certain some people would be bold and rude enough to approach her in the middle of a hospital for autographs, for sure. The others might think it’s funny, but it’s annoying when she never wanted notoriety in the first place. 

“Mr Wolfe is upstairs on the third floor, in a private critical care suite,” Simmons informs them, swiping on her tablet as they walk down the pristine clean corridors towards the elevator. They’re having to walk through Pediatrics to steer clear of the cafeteria. “It looks as if his vitals have stabilized since last night, but his pneumothorax was pretty severe, so we’ll have to keep him on oxygen on the flight back.”

“And the containment pod has been prepped?” Coulson asks.

Fitz nods from where he’s walking side by side with the biochemist, their arms brushing as he peers over at her tablet screen. “Yeah, I calibrated it for Mr Wolfe’s hydrokinetic powers. We can call it down onto the helicopter pad from the Zephyr when needed. Hopefully, he’ll come quietly.”

“Jason’s a gentle giant and he trusts SHIELD, he won’t put up a fuss,” Daisy reassures them.

“You mean he trusts you,” May corrects, shooting her a pointed look. 

Daisy tries not to grimace. May’s right. A lot of the Inhumans that are under SHIELD’s protection only agreed to the monitoring, tracking watches, and monthly check-ins because Daisy was the one who made initial contact with them. Inhumans are part of a community, after all, and they feel much safer around their own kind.

As they continue down the Pediatrics corridor, Daisy finds herself trailing behind slightly, and then slowing to a halt in front of an open door. The screams and sobs of upset children within the ward ring in her ears. Memories from her childhood wash over her like a tidal wave, plunging her into their freezing, dark depths; infants hungry and cold in the orphanage cribs, crying desperately for attention… children shrieking in pain as the nuns struck their hands and behinds with a wooden cane. A foster brother barely a year older than her screaming as he tried to shield her from an abusive foster father’s vicious assault with a broken beer bottle.

Her head spinning as she stares dazedly through the door at the weeping sick and injured children, Daisy barely notices a hand settling on her shoulder until it squeezes so tightly it begins to ache. She blinks out of her stupor, turning to find the whole team staring at her with worried, confused expressions. She must have frozen in place as soon as she heard the crying. Coulson and May appear the most concerned, Coulson being the person with his hand on her shoulder while May hovers a couple of feet away, shifting restlessly as if she’s resisting the urge to comfort her.

“Daisy?” Coulson says, bemusement lining his voice. “You okay? You just… stopped.”

She doesn’t reply, just continues staring vacantly at the ill kids, feeling a blanket of numbness unfurling and draping over her like a weight yanking down on her shoulders. She’s not focusing on the children specifically, though. It’s their crying. It’s overwhelming.

The heavy void suddenly overtaking her is almost strangling in its intensity, causing her chest to start to tighten and her breathing to stutter. Her mind is struggling to process her senses, making them both heightened and muted simultaneously, so that the crying is so loud it’s deafening. It’s almost as if a disorientating storm is whipping up her thoughts into becoming incoherent.

“Oh, those poor dears,” Simmons murmurs sympathetically, as she steps up next to Daisy and spots what she’s looking at. “Even with all the painkillers they’re on, they’re still crying.”

May shakes her head, explaining in a quiet, morose voice, “They’re not in pain, they’re scared.”

“C’mon, let’s go. We’re not helping by standing here ogling at them,” Fitz nudges Simmons along. When Daisy remains stock still, her gaze unblinking, he prompts her cautiously, “Daisy? Mr Wolfe’s waiting for us.”

Still not completely aware of what’s happening, and feeling like she’s floating outside of her body, Daisy manages a small nod. She only starts walk again, however, when Coulson tightens his hand on her shoulder, putting enough pressure there that she begins to automatically move. Away from the open ward door, away from the crying children. It feels wrong to be leaving - like there’s a tether between her and that room that’s formed, and she’s now stretching it to the point where it’s tugging on her heart and causing spasms.

The children’s sobbing reverberates within her skull even as they increase the distance to the point where she shouldn’t be able to hear it anymore. And yet... everything else is dull and silent around her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots May casting her a scrutinizing look. The specialist always seems to realize when something’s wrong with her. Daisy wonders if May can tell that she currently doesn’t feel totally present right now, like her mind has separated from her body. Her powers feel completely out of reach; she can’t sense any vibrations from anything or anybody around her, like she’s been shoved into an isolation chamber.

It’s not just her body and powers… it’s her emotions as well. There’s a brick wall that’s been thrown up, stopping her from feeling - well, _anything_. She’s not panicked, or depressed, or angry. Or maybe she is, and she just can’t _feel_ it. That’s disconcerting to think about. Or, Daisy would be disconcerted about it, if she could feel something.

“Daisy.” She’s jolted back to attention from the fuzzy, dark place she’s mentally wandered off to by Coulson pinching her arm to the point of a sharp pain radiating down the rest of the limb. The expression on his face can only be described as alarmed. “Breathe.”

She forces herself to blink slowly at him. Is she not breathing? She forcibly inhales and exhales, the oxygen burning her lungs, which is an indicator that she’s been depriving herself of air. Maybe she was holding her breath without realizing it.

“What’s going on?” he asks worriedly. Daisy once again blinks, knowing that she should be bewildered by everything that’s going on and most of all by that question, because to be quite honest, she’s not sure. There’s no way she’s going to be able to reply, what with how she’s feeling. Coulson looks over her shoulder at the rest of the team, telling them seriously, “Okay, I think we need to put the mission on hold. Something’s wrong with Daisy, she’s barely responding to me. I think she’s dissociating.”

Before anybody else from the team can comment, a group of midwives and nurses hurriedly wheel a bassinet with a screaming infant covered in monitors and wires down the corridor, heading down to the newborn intensive care unit. A baby waiting in pain and fear is the most awful, horrifying, upsetting sound in the world. And upon hearing it, every muscle in Daisy’s body clams up. Her lungs seize, breath catching in her throat.

A memory smashes through that brick wall in her mind, decimating it to rumble. Fourteen years old, curled up in a cold, bank basement, frantically rocking a colicky baby to try and get him to stop crying. Weeping herself as footsteps crash down the metal staircase, furious bellowing making her blood pound in her ears, her heart racing with crippling terror. Being wrenched away from the infant, thrown across the room, agony exploding in her left leg. The baby abruptly going silent. Her desperate hope that he would start crying again. He had to start crying again. He needed to cry, he needed to breathe-

“I’ve got you, Dais, I’ve got you,” is the distraught whisper in her ear that drags her back to the present. Coulson. Hands on her back, on her shoulders, holding each of her arms as she’s eased off her feet and carried away from the screaming child, whisked from the corridor and into a quiet space. “Keep breathing, sweetheart. We’re all here, we’ve got you. You’re safe, Daisy, we’re not gonna let anybody hurt you.”

Awareness of what’s happening comes to her ripples, like gentle waves swelling and rushing at the shoreline before retreating away back into the black ocean. Tears are streaming down her face and she’s trembling all over, silent sobs shaking her from head to toe. She’s afraid, deathly scared, and her heart _aches_ , because it’s thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings in her chest, inhumanly fast. She’s sweating like she’s run a marathon; her breathing is shallow but rapid, like her body is trying to hyperventilate but refusing to let her at the same time. And she’s tired. She’s so, so tired. Exhausted to the point where she’s not even sure she can keep her eyes open for much longer.

What is _happening to her?_ Is she dying?

“You’re not dying,” Simmons calm voice informs her. Oh, she must have said that out loud. “You’re just having a panic attack, Daisy. We’re going to sit you down on the floor, against the wall, okay?”

She must nod, because they lower her carefully down onto the rough carpet. Fitz and Coulson slip into place either side of her, sitting next to her to stop her from slumping sideways. A couple more confounded blinks and a brief surge of awareness alert her to the fact that Simmons is now sitting cross-legged in front of her, and May has taken hold of both of her hands, pressing one over Daisy’s heart and the other over her own. Her powers trickle back, letting May’s smooth, steady vibrations wash over her, tender and soothing. 

“Can you feel May’s vibrations?” Simmons asks. Daisy swallows and nods. She’s scared. But not as scared as she would be if the team weren’t here with her. “I want you to focus on them. On nothing else, only them. And then I’m going to count to three, and back down to one, on repeat; I want you to inhale up to three, and exhale back down to one. It’s going to force you to slow and deepen your breathing, and it will probably be uncomfortable for a minute or two. The increased oxygen supply to your brain is going to stimulate your parasympathetic nervous system and help you relax.”

Daisy follows all of the biochemist’s instructions. She breathes in, she breathes out. Concentrating on May’s vibrations, she allows them to sweep over her so they drown out even her own resonant frequency. Gradually, the connection between her mind and body fuses back together, and she’s flooded with her emotions again. The sudden onslaught of all her feelings, positive and negative - but mostly negative - nearly causes her to pass out from the intensity of them. The most powerful emotion of them all is complete and utter despair. Daisy can’t help but tear up, starting to sniffle.

“It’s okay, let it out,” Coulson murmurs, drawing her closer to his side so he can securely wrap his arms around her in a hug.

She chokes on a sob, burying her face in his jacket. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no, you don’t ever have to apologize for a panic attack,” Fitz replies softly, rubbing her back. “It’s not your fault, Dais.”

She feels like she’s ruined everything, actually, especially the mission, but she knows her team would never admit that to her.

“I think it might be best if Daisy goes with May back to the quinjet,” Simmons says quietly. “Coulson, Fitz, and I can handle Mr Wolfe.”

There’s no chance she’s going to be able to argue with Simmons and the rest of the team and _win_ , so Daisy just concedes, bowing her head with a heavy sigh. Her legs still feel wobbly beneath her as Fitz and Coulson help her back onto her feet. She keeps her eyes averted, ashamed to have been seen in such a vulnerable position. Daisy hates the way that the team are all looking at her with pity, as if she’s _weak_.

May must sense her rising anxiety, because she places a gentle hand on her arm to guide her out of the hospital to the staff parking lot. Fortunately, they avoid the Pediatrics corridor, so she doesn’t have to listen to any more children crying.

May doesn’t press her to talk as they walk, seeming to understand she needs the silence to process. Because there’s certainly a lot of that. The last panic attack she had was immediately after Lincoln’s death, but before that... she hasn’t had one in years. Daisy is fully aware that she suffers from PTSD, anxiety, and some pretty acute depression, but she’s never been aware of any triggers before. When she was younger, her panic attacks were the result of claustrophobia, close-call assaults, and those sorts of things. It was the sound of the children in that Pediatrics ward crying, and then the baby screaming, that appears to have triggered this one.

When they get to the quinjet, May slips into the pilot’s seat without a word, gesturing with a sharp nod to the co-pilot’s chair beside her. She joins the specialist hesitantly, curling up in the seat with her knees tucked to her chest. It’s a position that makes her as small a target as possible, and protects all her vital organs. Daisy shudders; she coiled up into a ball all too often when she was a kid trying to survive a beating from a foster parent. Her past memories re-emerging are reminding her of the worst homes she survived, but they’re putting her on edge, making her feel unguarded and unsafe.

The bird will be staying on the ground for now, until Coulson and Fitz get back; the containment pod will only just about fit Jason on his medical bed and Simmons, so the men will need a ride back up to the Zephyr. Without the engines' purring, the quinjet is still and hushed, making for an awkward atmosphere, especially with the tension that’s building as Daisy continues to not say anything. May remains quiet and pensive, staring out of the windshields and maintaining a carefully blank expression.

While her mentor slash pseudo-mother is allowing her to stay silent, Daisy knows that she’ll have to talk eventually. And she would much rather it to be to May than to anybody else, who might overreact.

“It was the children and baby crying,” Daisy admits in a shaky whisper, keeping her wet eyes aimed down at her lap. “Hearing them triggered some flashbacks. But I’ve never had a panic attack like that before, where I just… shut down. Usually, I just hyperventilate a lot and get snappy whenever people try and touch me. Today was… _bad_.”

A beat passes before May murmurs softly, “What kind of flashbacks?”

Swallowing, Daisy digs her fingernails into her wrists, creating an unpleasant but grounding bite in her skin. She refuses to let those memories submerge her in their murkiness again. “Bad foster homes,” she croaks. “Really, _really_ bad foster homes. The - the ones that… that I ended up in hospital because of.”

“How many abusive homes did you live in?” May’s voice is flat. It makes her want to flinch. May only ever sounds that cold when she’s suppressing a large amount of emotion, and Daisy suspects that in this case, it might be rage.

She shrugs, picking at her fingernails. “It depends on what you count as abuse. Physically abusive, I think about eight. Emotionally and psychologically abusive, double that.” Huffing bitterly, Daisy doesn’t even care when her cuticles start to bleed. “And I was sixteen when I escaped the system. I ran away from my last group home, lived on the streets from then on. Worked in cafes and diners, and made rich kids fake IDs in back-alleys, until I had enough money to buy my van.” Glancing up at May cautiously, she tells her reluctantly, “My worst home was when I was fourteen. Those are the memories that the screaming baby dragged up, that made the dissociation turn into a meltdown.”

May turns her head minutely towards her, but doesn’t meet her eyes. It’s to show that she’s listening, but isn’t going to pressure her to answer. “What happened?”

Clenching her jaw, Daisy presses her nails into her wrists once again, until deep red crescent moons appear. Vibrations bubble to the surface, searing beneath her skin as her powers writhe to be released in response to her agitation. She half-expects bruises to begin blossoming along her forearms as she attempts to contain them. While the quinjet has been mostly quake-proofed, there’s always a chance that she could still damage something - or hurt May, which would be utterly unforgivable.

The specialist’s hands gently grasp her dominant hand to tug it away, trapping it between her own palms to prevent her from scratching again. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” she reassures quietly.

She doesn’t want to - but she needs to. Because if Daisy doesn’t get this off her chest now, she never will, and she’s sure that if she doesn’t tell this story, it will remain buried deep inside of her for the rest of her life, a festering wound that can never heal. Taking a deep breath, she begins to speak.

“This couple took me in because they’d just had a baby and wanted a free babysitter. Never fostered before. Wanted the paperwork rushed, that should have been the first red flag. The mom was having an affair with her business partner from work and they were constantly going on cross country trips, so she was never at the house. The dad was an alcoholic, had a job as a construction worker. Definitely had some sort of power complex. He hated the baby because he didn’t think it was his.” She zeroes in on her hand, clasped between May’s. She’s safe, May is here with her, and those people can’t hurt her anymore. “When the mom was away, he would force me to stay in the basement with the baby and take care of him. If the baby cried even a little, he would go crazy. One day, about two months into the placement, the baby got sick and just wouldn’t stop crying no matter what I did. The guy was already drunk - I think he got fired because he was never turning up to work… he was so angry. He broke my leg. The baby…”

The sound that rips out of May’s throat is of pure anguish. “No…”

“The baby didn’t die,” she quickly tells her, shaking her head. “But he hurt him, bad. I thought that he was gonna kill us both so I grabbed the baby, thinking he was already dead, and escaped and ran across the street to the neighbors, to get them to call the cops. I was in the hospital for four days and then went back to St Agnes’ straight after. I think the baby got adopted by some nice family. At least, I hope he did. But god, the way he screamed...”

She extracts her hand from May’s grip so she can rub them over her ashen face, brushing away her tears as she rests her elbows on her thighs. The quiet, hysterical laugh that bursts out of her is cut off by an uncontrollable sob.

“Daisy?”

“I remember that sometimes I would hope he would die because then he would shut up and I wouldn’t get beaten because of his crying. And I knew I would get beaten if he died, but I thought they would send me back to the orphanage if the baby was gone. Can you imagine that? I was such a fucking awful, selfish little kid. But that day, when he stopped crying… I think I’ll always have nightmares about it.”

May rests her hand delicately on Daisy’s back, making a show of the slow movement so that she’s not startled at all at the contact. “You almost never talk about your childhood except for sarcastic remarks every now and then,” she says quietly.

Shrugging fake-nonchalantly, she mutters, “Now you know why. It’s too painful to remember most days.”

“But none of us knew it was _that_ painful for you.”

“There’s no use dwelling on the past. It’s over, I’m an adult, and I found my family.” Daisy straightens up, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her palms over her face vigorously to rid her cheeks of the tear stains, and get some blood flowing to stop her from looking so pale. “Look, I really don’t want to have to tell that story again to everybody else, so could you please fill them in for me and ask them to let it lie? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Coulson isn’t going to back down that easily,” May warns her. “He’s going to want to speak to you after this mission is over.”

Daisy sighs tiredly. She knows that she must have seriously freaked Coulson out. May is right when she says that he’s going to want an explanation for her panic attack. His fatherly concern for her runs deep in his veins, just as her admiration and respect for him as her pseudo-father (as well as her mentor and past commanding officer) is a profound part of her.

“Then I’ll deal with the aftermath,” she replies, defeated.

To May’s credit, she manages to keep Coulson and the rest of the team from interrogating her for the entire journey back to base. This is mostly by glaring at anyone who gets close to them while Daisy sticks to her side, keeping her head low, once they fly the quinjet up to the Zephyr.

As soon as the aircraft lands, Daisy is the one slinking off-board first. She suspects that Simmons will try to corral her into the lab for some testing, so hurries off to hide in her bunk. In all honesty, her panic attack earlier drained her of energy to the point of exhaustion; she could really use a nap.

She quakes the door shut and locks it as soon as she enters her bunk, not even bothering to turn the lights on or change before collapsing into bed. Her room smells stale and wrong. She ran away for over half a year, and has only been back around a month; no matter how many scented candles she burns and air fresheners she sprays, she feels like it’s always going to smell off. Her bedsheets smell faintly of lavender, though, thanks to Simmons’ fabric conditioner. The gentle scent helps her drift off to sleep slowly.

When Daisy wakes an hour later, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, she jolts when she realizes she’s not alone. Unsure why her powers wouldn’t have alerted her to the intruder, she rushes to try to sit up. She raises her hand to quake the person away, but then freezes when she hears them shushing her softly, her hair being stroked back tenderly. The person’s vibrations wash over her, and she relaxes with a huff once she recognizes them.

“Watching me while I’m sleeping is creepy,” she mutters to Coulson, twisting over onto her side and half-kicking her blanket off, so she can press her face into his leg.

“I knocked, but you were asleep,” he replies with a small smile. “Dead to the world.”

“‘Was tired.”

“Panic attacks are like that,” Coulson hums.

Daisy curls up into a tighter ball, exhaling when she feels him begin to stroke up and down her spine soothingly. “I’ve had them before. You don’t have to coddle me.”

“The fact you’re so indifferent to that fact is what makes me want to coddle you.” Coulson adjusts her blanket so that it covers her legs again. Her feet are pretty cold, so she appreciates it. “And it’s not technically ‘coddling’. It’s looking after you, and you deserve to be looked after every once in a while, Dais.”

She doesn’t agree with that. She mostly feels like a burden to them. Being looked after and cared for often feels like a luxury she’s not worthy of. “I know you want me to tell you what triggered the panic attack. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I already know,” he tells her reassuringly. “May explained. I’m so, so sorry those terrible things happened to you, and I wish I’d known sooner so I could support you, but I understand why you didn’t want to say anything. And I know you don’t wanna talk about it now, either. I just wanted to let you know that if you ever change your mind and do… I’ll be here to listen. Whenever, wherever. And the rest of the team feel the same way.”

“Because you’re my family,” she whispers.

Coulson’s smile grows. “Yeah, we are.”

Daisy sits up, blinking through the darkness at him. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust so she can focus on him. “Nobody has ever been as patient with me as you guys,” she admits. “Nobody’s ever cared as much, either. It’s been nearly four years, and I’m still not used to it.” Leaning into his side, she closes her eyes when Coulson wraps his arm around her shoulders protectively. “And I’ve never had somebody there to help me with my panic attacks. All of you helped in one way or another, and you made me feel safe even when my mind was yelling that I was in danger. So thank you. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” Coulson murmurs. “We know you would do the same for us.” He hesitates before adding carefully, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and this is the last I’ll mention it, but it might be useful if you could tell us what your triggers are, at some point. It will help us guide you into safe spaces when you need it, and maneuver operations around your triggers to keep you shielded from them.”

She grimaces a little at the pun - _her SHIELD family will keep her shielded_ \- but she can’t say that she doesn’t appreciate the sentiment. “I’ll think about it,” Daisy eventually responds. It will take a lot of courage on her part to talk about the triggers she knows she has, and she’s not quite sure she’s brave enough for that at the moment. “The others aren’t going to act weird around me, are they? I don’t want them walking on eggshells because they think I’m - _broken_ , or something.”

“No eggshells. They might be a little more protective, though. They know that you don’t want this to be made into a big deal. And Daisy - none of us think you are broken. In fact, I think all of us are under the impression that you’re the strongest of us all now, given what you’ve survived through. You came out the other side of it to become one of the finest agents SHIELD has ever seen, and a hero.” Coulson brushes a fond kiss against her forehead before standing, offering her his hand. “So I doubt there will be weird behavior. Last I heard, Fitzsimmons were baking scones for us to have with clotted cream and strawberry jelly. Or _jam_ , as they would call it. Want to come to the kitchen with me to get first dibs?”

“Okay, firstly, should we really be trusting Fitzsimmons to bake without burning the base down? And secondly, you did not just say dibs,” Daisy snickers. She slides to the edge of the bed and takes his hand, so he can pull her to her feet.

“Baking is chemistry, according to Simmons. They’re adults, they’ll be fine.” When she shoots him an incredulous look, Coulson sighs and confesses, “Mack is supervising them.”

Daisy quirks an eyebrow. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.” And then nervously, continues, “I should, er, probably tell you that the smell of burning is one of my triggers. Doesn’t make me have panic attacks or anything, but makes me uncomfortable. Not as stupid as crying children, but -”

“Hey.” Coulson snags her wrist, tugging gently until he has her attention. His expression is solemn once again, his brow furrowed with concern. “None of your triggers are stupid. No matter what they are,” he insists. “Triggers are extremely personal and can be anything. One of mine is glowing blue light, because of Loki’s scepter. Other people might think that’s a broad and trivial trigger, but it doesn’t invalidate me or my feelings. Yours are equally just as valid and you don’t have to be ashamed of them. Everybody here understands the significance of triggers, so nobody is going to judge you. All right?”

“All right,” she agrees, feeling somewhat shy all of a sudden - probably because of his stern tone. “Kitchen, then?”

Coulson nods, his smile slowly returning. “Kitchen. For scones.”

They both jolt when on their way out of her bunk, the fire alarm suddenly starts shrieking above them. Daisy can’t help it - she bursts into laughter, because there’s only one real reason there would be a fire on base right now, and it involves their two favorite scientists messing with an oven.

“I guess not, then,” Coulson sighs. “We’ll order in Chinese instead.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading -i hope you enjoyed!
> 
> i would really appreciate it if you left kudos, and would love to hear your thoughts in the comments (plus maybe some oneshot prompts, although i can't promise that i will write them, or when)


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